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“But I thought you were too busy with freelance?”

“Not if I stop. I’ll miss the money, but I wanna draw my own stuff. I’ve learned so much, penciling for other people.”

“It would be fun. After Christmas?”

“Defo.” Lucy blew a raspberry. “I’d like to see Sir Kenneth bloody Branagh write a graphic novel.”

A burly construction guy hammering back the last of his pint beside Alex discarded his crumpled copy of the National Mail on the bar and exited through the noisy wall of people. She chewed her fries slowly, lost in the tabloid’s sensational headline.

“The morning after the wedding, that article you texted me…” She hid behind her hand. “I looked tragic.”

“We’ve all been there,” said Lucy.

“But you haven’t had your splotchy face plastered online for the world to mock.”

“The best part was the title.” Lucy snapped up her phone. “Let me find it—”

“No. Don’t.”

Lucy tapped her screen twice. “Here it is.”

“What? You bookmarked it?”

“It still cracks me up. ‘Highland Fling: It’s Back on For BBC Hunk and His American Love.’ Nice fact-checking fail, Mail.”

“If they haven’t papped you in a month, the relationship is dead.” Alex chomped her last fry. “The editors must’ve busted a gut, choosing these photos.” She pointed at the screen. “I mean, look.”

There it was, the ridiculous leaf waving from her fascinator as she tugged on the back of her coat. This shot looked like she was picking underwear out of her ass.

Lucy snickered. “I shouldn’t laugh, but…it is funny. ‘A Wedding Wedgie to Be Be-Leafed.”’

Alex crossed her arms. “That’s it, you’re fired—”

“Punny headline of the year.” Lucy elbowed Alex.

“—for being a crap friend.”

Alex scrolled through the photos: caught mid-blink with hair stuck to her flushed face; the straps of her dress shifting under her coat, threatening to expose much more than a shoulder; her mouth agape in a laugh—were those her tonsils? There wasn’t a single photo that showed her in a flattering light.

“I wasn’t slurring when we left. I was tired and a bit giggly, but I wasn’t fall-down drunk.”

“True. Keegs still had his clothes on.”

“It’s been ages since I’ve done that.” Alex stretched one of the photos with her fingertips, enlarging it on the screen. Its caption: ‘Keegan’s a Mark-ed Man: Girlfriend is Stage Five Clinger.’ But it was Mark’s arm holding her tight. How badly she had wanted to get home at that moment, to be in their flat, alone together where she could show him how much he meant to her. Mark looked gorgeous—as always—sharing a laugh as they walked towards their Uber SUV. Loosened tie, shirt partially unbuttoned, eyes bright at two in the morning…he looked content, in love, hers—but the paper was determined to serve up a different story, one that its millions of readers devoured. The fugly pictures and snarky captions were still attracting hurtful comments eleven days later.

“Don’t read any further.” Lucy covered the phone with her hand. “It’s a bloodbath.”

“I read them last week. At least Mark survived unscathed.” The comment trolls were like schoolyard bullies, kicking her self-confidence to a pulp, albeit anonymously. “Maybe I should start telling random people walking down the street that they look hideous, fat, and stupid—it’s no different than leaving crappy comments like this. I’m not a robot. I have feelings, too.”

“People can be such fuckwits, and the paps just feed their trolling.”

“It’s so different from when we first got together.” Alex handed back Lucy’s phone, a slight smile taking over her lips. “Riding his Vespa, walking along the South Bank, clubbing with you guys—we could have private moments wherever we went.” She stabbed ice cubes with her straw. “But now, a lazy afternoon lounging on deck chairs in St. James’s Park would be splashed across the tabloids. Mark can’t sneeze without a camera capturing it, they’re so sneaky.”

“He doesn’t seem too bothered by it, though, right?”

“He finds it funny that people are interested in him. Paps follow him to the shops and he’ll be chatting away about football or whatever. I’ve told him not to encourage them, but he says he’s just being polite—‘You can take the boy out of Blackrock, but you can’t take Blackrock out of the boy.”’

Lucy shook her head. “If some shutterbug was following me around, making chitchat, I’d take his camera and shove it right up his arse.”